At the station they added the unknown victim and details from the scene to the incident board. Lottie supported the theory whereby visually interpreting data was more productive than information in databases which could be missed or forgotten. Not that they had much to interpret.

She assigned the task of resurrecting information on Sally Stynes aka Susan Sullivan to a detective and wondered where she could get her hands on St Angela’s records. Discovering more about the institution just might reveal something about Susan Sullivan. Lottie returned her attention to the latest victim.

‘If it hadn’t snowed so heavily,’ she said, ‘the body might have been found—’

‘A week ago,’ Boyd interjected.

‘Yes. Unless the killer was following the weather forecast, he wanted that body found.’

‘And there was no attempt to cover it up.’

‘Just the snow.’

‘If it hadn’t snowed . . .’ Boyd began.

‘But it did. Was it an attempt to point the finger at—’

‘James Brown? When the body wasn’t found, for some reason, the murderer had to kill Sullivan and Brown.’ Boyd paused then continued, ‘Brown could still have carried out this murder though.’

‘Oh, this conjecture is pointless.’ Lottie sighed with exasperation.

Looking at the board, she noticed they had no photograph of Father Angelotti. She made a quick phone call, grabbed her coat, and sidestepping Boyd, hurried out of the building.

‘Hello, Sister. I’m here to see Father Burke. He’s expecting me.’

The nun directed her to the room where she’d sat the first day. Lottie walked around the mahogany furniture looking at the large portraits of long-dead bishops hanging on the walls. They’d put the fear of God in you, she thought.

‘Wouldn’t they put the fear of God in you?’ Father Joe said, walking in behind her.

‘I was thinking the exact same thing.’ She grinned at him. Synchronicity?

‘Tea? Sister Anna will oblige.’

‘No, thank you.’

‘How can I help? It sounded urgent on the phone.’

‘I need a photograph of Father Angelotti,’ Lottie said. She didn’t really need it, they had the hairbrush for DNA comparisons.

‘You haven’t found him yet?’ He went to a computer in the corner where he printed a photograph. She could have done that herself. Wasn’t it just an excuse to see him again? She shouldn’t have come here. Her logic and emotion were contradictory. So was she.

Studying the photo, she wrinkled up her nose. It was possible he was the body in Brown’s garden.

‘Does Father Angelotti smoke?’ she asked, recalling the stale tobacco smell in the priest’s room and the cigarette butts at the scene.

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Hold on.’ He phoned someone, listened and hung up.

‘According to Father Eoin, Bishop Connor’s secretary, he did smoke. Why do you need to know?’

‘Gathering as much information as possible.’ She switched the conversation. ‘What do you know about St Angela’s?’

‘St Angela’s? Not a lot. It ceased operating as a children’s home in the early eighties. I think it was a retirement place for nuns before it closed permanently. It was sold a few years ago.’

‘What happened to the records?’

‘I presume they were archived,’ he said. ‘Why the questions about St Angela’s?’

‘How would I go about finding out where the records are?’ Lottie ignored his query.

‘All very mysterious, Inspector, but leave it with me. I can do some amateur detecting for you.’

Lottie caught a glint of mischief in his eye and thought she saw the boy he once was, before the white collar of Rome shackled him to austere adulthood. She rose to leave, holding out her hand. He seemed to hold it for a second longer than necessary or was it her imagination?

‘You have my number. Let me know as soon as you find anything,’ she said.

‘Of course I will.’

Father Joe searched the diocesan records on the local area network, using his personal password. He keyed in St Angela’s.

Access denied.

Unusual.

He rang Father Eoin.

‘I seem to be having difficulty finding the diocesan records database,’ he said.

‘Bishop Connor engaged a consultant to revamp our intranet. He wanted increased security.’

‘But surely these records are available to us priests.’

‘You can have my password. See if it gets you in. I’m sure Bishop Connor won’t mind.’

‘You’re a lifesaver.’

Hanging up, he entered the new password.

He was in.

He looked at the cursor flashing on the blank screen.

There were no records relating to St Angela’s.

He grabbed for his phone again.